The Elevator
by evizyt
Summary: MY COFFEE!" Hermione Granger screams, but a more pressing problem is the fact that Draco Malfoy has just walked in, and is staring at her intensely with his frigid silver eyes, and a feral grin. Desire, passion, and a moment alone in an elevator. DHr.


_A/N: I think I'm going to do these in Italics from now on, I like italics. SO... I finally got my act together and drabbled out some DHr!! Whoopee for me! Yes, I should be updating Unfortunately, A Death in the Family, and everything else, but instead I'm spouting pointless oneshots like a leaky faucet. _

_Some story stuff incase you care: This was inspired by several things--a poem about a moment in an elevator, by someone I can't remember, T.A. Baron's descriptions of Dagda's eyes, and how I think they should both be. I think this may remain a oneshot, but it would be cool to write a sequel. Have fun, elevator stories make me so happy! _

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**The Elevator **

A rather harried looking Hermione Granger shooed an equally harassed-loking gaggle of Ministry officials out of the elevator.

"And take your goddamn memos with you!" She hollered after them, running a hand through her already tangled mass of curly hair. "Magical Law Enforcement Squad…" she muttered darkly under her breath, glaring darkly at the five memos, which zipped off upon arrival at the Auror's floor.

An unexpected and most unwelcome elevator companion chose this moment to dash in right before the doors closed, bumping directly in to Hermione, and sending her coffee and incredibly important very official top secret (IIVOTS for short) documents flying everywhere.

"MY COFFEE!" Hermione shrieked in horror as the papers scattered in the mexican brew, slowly turning a wet brown. "That was hazelnut-cream and nutmeg, with soy milk and a dab of chocolate," she moaned softly, straightening from the mushy mess to give the impromptu stranger a what-for, but stopped immediately upon seeing the cold-cruelty hardened face of Draco Malfoy.

Hermione was suddenly uncomfortably aware of her messy hair and coffee-soaked white shirt. But all rational thought process abruptly stopped when she met his eyes.

They were a burning, roiling mass of pure mercuric silver and stormy grey, seeming to glow with an internal light, and Hermione thought she could see highlights of an earthy green among the turmoil. The pupil had dilated just enough to create stark contrast between the never-ending black and the greyest blue imaginable.

Inexplicably, her knees began to tremble.

For his part, Draco was holding his breath. The deep, cinnamon-spice eyes of Hermione were like twin pools, plunging deeper and deeper until you lost yourself in her gaze. He could see flashes of a deeper reddish-brown, and a slight mirroring of his own hazel blue.

He gave a feral grin.

They remained like that for a moment, suspended in the time capsule of the elevator. Their eyes were locked in an electrifying contest, a battle of wills, of right and wrong, hatred, lust, and passion. Sparks should have flown between their locked gazes.

It was as if they could read each other's minds; they were pouring their hearts out through their eyes. It was a connection so strong, so deep, an emotional channel ran between the two. The air tingled with electricity. Different, and yet the same. For a moment, they were one, each whole and complete in their own way, more together then any physical intimacy could achieve.

The stuffy cell was thick with tension. The mutual desire was palpable. Neither spoke for fear of breaking the spell.

"The Department of Mysteries," the cool, calm voice announced, and the elevator began to slow. Hermione shifted an examined the floor, sure someone could fry an egg on her face. Draco cleared his throat and moved towards the door.

Right as the little bell sounded, signifying the doors opening, Hermione felt cool fingers on her chin. She resisted the urge to shiver.

Hermione looked up in to the coldest eyes she'd ever seen. Draco raked his eyes up and down her face, searching her eyes desperately with his, touching her chin with the barest tips of his fingers.

The second contact was short but sweet, languorously slow and caressing.

Then he was gone, in a swirl of black robes and sycophantic assistants, all eager to help Miss Granger clear up the mess, and get her another coffee.

&

**hmm? **


End file.
